“But—but…uh….” Brona stuttered.
Joan’s voice lifted. “The fact of the matter, my dear, is that a sex tape and dirty photos like those will only help Mr. Fitzpatrick’s sex appeal and our overall campaign. You see, he’s in the dominant position. He’s holding your leash, not the other way around. Meanwhile, they’ll make you look weak and pathetic. They’ll kill any aspirations you might have of becoming a pop princess because parents don’t want their little girls to grow up to be submissives in dog collars. You see, you can sell those photos and that tape to some filthy tabloid, and they’ll fetch you about five hundred thousand euros; but that would be the end of your singing career, wouldn’t it?”
Brona turned slightly away, giving me her profile. I saw that her face had drained of color and her hands were balled into fists.
Joan tsked. “Poor dear. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. How about I give you two hundred thousand euros, and you give us the photos and the tape? But really, that’s my only offer.”
Brona’s bottom lip quivered, so she flattened her mouth into a stiff line. “What assurances do I have that you won’t just release it?”
“We have our plan. It’s been working quite well so far. I see no need to throw a sex tape into the mix. So, you have my word that we won’t make it public for…oh, let’s say two years. Tick tock, tick tock. I’ve got that meeting, and I really must dash.”
“Fine!” Brona shrieked, turning back to Joan and using the back of her hand to wipe away two tears. “Fine. When do I get my money?”
“Are there any other copies?”
“No. It’s all here. I’ve got media arseholes breaking into my apartment all the time looking for shite. They’ve taken my computer twice. So I kept this in a security deposit box. There are no other copies.”
“Well, good. Just leave those with Ms. Catrel, and she’ll have the money transferred into your account.”
“Today?”
“Actually, she can do it right now. Write your account number down, and have some tea. You’ll have the money in less than twenty minutes.”
Brona was losing steam; her shoulders slumped. Her gaze flickered to mine, and I saw her eyes were rimmed red with unhappiness and exhaustion. I almost felt sorry for her.
“Fine.” She pushed the envelope and pictures away from her, sending several photos to the floor.
“Good. Well!” Joan clapped her hands together, her smile very shark-like as she added, “It’s been a pleasure, Ms. O’Shea, but I really must be going.”
And without a goodbye or another word, Joan clicked off.
***
Brona didn’t stay more than a half hour, just long enough to confirm that the money had been transferred. Nor did we talk…at first. After I placed the call for the bank transfer, I poured myself tea. She sat quietly on the desk chair, holding her face in her hands, and not looking at me.
All her earlier pomp and venom was gone. She looked tired.
This was not the first time I’d had to pay someone off on short notice. The Starlet—Dara—had assaulted a woman and her children at a florist just two blocks from my apartment. I had to run down to the scene and negotiate a payout before the woman took the story to the press.
But this felt very different.
I hadn’t yet studied the photos. I’d only overheard the conversation between Joan and Brona. In my mind, I was imagining the worst-case scenario—Ronan hitting Brona with a whip or chain or riding crop while he held her down, her legs spread by a spreader bar, her mouth gagged so she couldn’t scream, a tight collar around her neck.
I shivered, and my stomach churned. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want someone hitting me and getting off on it. I might love Ronan, but I wouldn’t love that. I’d narrowly escaped abuse my entire life; there was no way I would succumb to it willingly now that I was an adult.
Frustrated, I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes, tried to sit very still.
I was psyching myself out.
I needed to look at those pictures, but I couldn’t, not yet. Not while Brona was in the room.
“I’m not stupid, you know.”
Her voice was watery but firm, like she was trying valiantly not to cry. I opened my eyes and gave her my attention, keeping my face passive, patient.
“I’m not stupid. I had a plan.” She was sitting upright in the chair, her arms crossed over her chest. She was inspecting me as though trying to determine what my plan might be.
“A plan?”
“Yeah, and it was good; it was working. But Ronan, he’s just so fucking stubborn. I finally, finally figured out a way to get that ring on my finger and that fucker, he wouldn’t set a date. He kept putting me off.”
“He asked you to marry him and then wouldn’t set a date?”
“Nah. I just bought one and started wearing it, let the press make up the rest. And it worked. Except…it didn’t. Because he flat out refused. Said he’d always take care of me but that we weren’t getting married. He gave me an allowance, like I was a child, like I was his responsibility or something. Fuck that. I was good enough to tie up, but I wasn’t good enough to have my name on his bank account.”
I considered her for a moment. Her frustration was a tangible thing, giving her an aura of electric instability. I decided silence was probably my best recourse.
But she continued unprompted, “So what was I supposed to do? Huh? That money is as much mine as it is his; I earned it! I supported him through everything, let him use me for his sick fantasies, put up with his bitch mother and annoying sister.”
“You never loved him,” I said, more to myself than to her. Despite my decision to stay quiet, the words slipped out, my heart hurting a little on Ronan’s behalf.
“What? Love him? Love Ronan? He doesn’t want love. He wants a fuck toy. He’s messed up. All he wants, all he’s ever wanted, is just someone to play with, to control, boss around. He said he wanted to take care of me, but what he wanted was to control me. Of course I didn’t love him.”
My phone chose that moment to chime. I held her gaze for a beat, her words distressing me for so many reasons. I didn’t even know where to start. So I turned my attention to the screen.
“You can check your bank balance. The funds have been transferred.” I was impressed with how composed I sounded.
She stood abruptly, pulled a glittery pink thing from her glittery pink purse and began tapping away at the screen. She also continued speaking—mumbling to herself, really—though I wished she wouldn’t.
“You know this already. I don’t have to tell you how sick he is, how he won’t touch you unless you can’t touch him. But maybe you like it, maybe you’re just as messed up as he is….”
Mercifully, she was finally quiet. I saw the exact moment she read her bank balance because her eyes brightened. She sniffed, wiped her hand across her nose, and then actually smiled.
“Well, screw all of you. I’m about to be a star, and you can all go to hell.”
Without even a backward glance, she strolled to the door and left, slamming it on her way out.
I waited maybe three seconds then bolted for the pictures, sending a few skidding toward the wall in my haste. I forced myself to calm down, again gritting my teeth, and then flipped the first one toward me. Every muscle in my body was tense as I consumed the image.
Then I frowned at it, confused, because for all of Brona’s ranting about how sick Ronan was, I didn’t see anything all that objectionable. If this was her Hail Mary pass, if this was what she’d been threatening Ronan with and ranting about for months, then it won the award for most anticlimactic blackmail moment in the history of the world.